


of prehistoric eggs, with love

by januarysunset



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Baking, Crack, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Picnics, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarysunset/pseuds/januarysunset
Summary: The 'C' in Crowley stands for 'culinary-artist' and no one can tell him otherwise.





	of prehistoric eggs, with love

**Author's Note:**

> i was inspired by an old hannigram post about hannibal making chicken soup for will. there is /no/ chicken soup here, but there are some culinary ingredients (because picnic, duh-doi). so that is how i found myself googling how to make mayonnaise while waiting for my flight at the airport
> 
> this picnic (date) was referenced in my Beel/Gabe-centric fic called [ dining with the enemy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384408), but both may be read as independent stories

Crowley woke up extra early this morning.

A firm believer that the world was already doing pretty great messing up by itself, he would usually sleep for days on end, only to wake up weeks, or months, or even a whole century later. For today, however, he found himself wide awake even before the sun crept up the horizon. He sniffed the air; it tasted like summer in Rome of 41 AD. Today was going to be a good day.

Around a quarter past seven, his kitchen (for the first time ever) had finally looked like someone used it. And wrecked it, even. As Crowley wiped the sweat off his brow, and the flour from his cheek, he looked outside his window and saw someone trip and drop their ice cream to the cold, unforgiving ground in front of his building. The day couldn't have been more perfect.

He arrived half an hour later at St. James's Park, Queen's _I Was Born to Love You_ coming to an abrupt halt as he turned off his Bentley and set it to park. Sprawled neatly by the roots of a big tree overlooking the river was a big pastel yellow blanket, on which Aziraphale was already sitting and sipping chamomile tea from a tumbler.

As Crowley started to think of what cool thing to say as a radical greeting, Aziraphale met his gaze and called him over with his brightest and chirpiest "Ah, Crowley!", and that was that.

"I got us a tin of Danish cookies," Aziraphale said with that familiar twinkle in his eye as Crowley plopped down beside him. "And some freshly made croissants from the bakery down the street, among other things."

Indeed the jolly expanse of cloth was littered here and there with Aziraphale's many cravings. "Looks like you hit every bakeshop in town, angel," Crowley said as he took a slice from a pan of treacle tarts. And, as casually as he could mutter, "By the way, I got you something."

"Oh, what is it?"

Aziraphale's excited response tickled the part of his (human body's) stomach where butterflies were made. But of course he came prepared with an answer to that question he hoped the angel would ask. 

"See, I've prepared for you a most exquisite meal fit for such a fine day as this." Trying to come off as casually indifferent, Crowley held the plastic square container up to Aziraphale's eyes for viewing and opened it. 

"Oh, _my_."

"Notice the crisp golden brown of the surface and the lining of the bread, sliced to perfect parallel loaves after baking in one of London's most antique yet functioning brick ovens, over the very same eternal flame that ya boy Moses found on the bush in the mountains. Inside each slice, you'll find - dare I say it - the most heavenly fluff of creamy delight, made of course from the very first egg among a dozen that the first chicken ever bore, found perfectly preserved in an ice block situated in the deepest caves of the Earth's tundras; after careful extraction I then transferred it into a clay pot that belonged to the childhood home of Alexander The Great, and boiled in what is the Earth's last few vials of preserved unicorns' tears. When that was done, I mixed it into a concoction of fine salt filtered from the Dead Sea, the finest ground pepper from Southwest India, and mayonnaise I made organically by fermenting vinegar. The mixture I then applied into the bread slices, which of course, I had already coated with a generous spread of butter made from the milk of the last living wooly mammoth that survived the ice age. So, dig in."

A moment of silence followed, which was filled by Aziraphale staring wide-eyed and motionless, and Crowley looking quite accomplished and pleased with himself. He sat back on his elbow cooly so as not to betray the giddy anticipation tickling his bones. In his peripheral vision, a not-so-athletic teenage boy was hit on the forehead by a frisbee aimed at him. The day was going really well.

"You..." Then Aziraphale began, his voice trembling. "You made me an egg sandwich."

Crowley did not expect for his culinary genius and efforts to simply be summarized back to him. The reaction he had visualized was a lot more different. It involved at least a bit of waterworks and birds singing in the background.

"Yeah, obviously," he replied rather crudely, in the way human adults do when they are sulking. "You're bloody welcome."

Aziraphale took the sandwich in his hands and held it delicately between his fingers. A few paces away, the not-so-athletic teen successfully caught his next frisbee as another speechless moment on the bright yellow picnic blanket stretched on, which was only broken when the angel released a sigh. 

"Okay, so I only made _one_ sandwich" Crowley sat up and burst out defiantly with some elaborate hand gestures, "because there was only one _'first egg'_. I mean, that's exactly what it means. And where else am I gonna get more unicorn tears in this day and age? Or a wooly mammoth's teat to squeeze?"

As he rambled on, Aziraphale's forehead furrowed suddenly and his cheeks radiated a rosy glow, his eyes became noticeably glassy.

"I know I'm supposed to love all things equally, but this is my new favorite thing," he croaked, unwept tears lodged at the back of his throat making his voice deeper than usual. "Thank you, Crowley."

This ultra-cool-as-a-cucumber laid-back demon sure as heck did not expect to be so emotional over this. Hell could smite him for his level of lame. Thank Satan for the veil of his fashionable sunglasses.

"Well, you might want to taste it first," he shrugged, heated defiance all melted to mush. "Although naturally, I'd have some skills to back up my ideas when I came up with Hell's Kitchen."

Aziraphale took a generous bite of Crowley's sandwich, savored it, and sighed a second time, this one of contentment and gastronomical delight.

"It's like experiencing a book for the first time," he said as he wiped a corner of his mouth.

Crowley had heard him purr before, over many lunches and dinners and breakfasts and all snacking in between, but not like this. With a small smile, he watched his friend take another bite, as he helped himself to a serving of croissants.

Aziraphale gently set the remaining half of the egg sandwich back in its container. He looked like he was considering something over and over in his mind before he said, "Now that the apocalypse is temporarily behind us, I think I should finally..."

Crowley was getting the sense that Aziraphale was about to tell him something quite important. It made his chest feel tight. 

"What I meant to say is, I don't want to waste any more time, Crowley..." Aziraphale continued rather seriously, and as Crowley stared back at him, he realized that the angel's handsome face was getting closer and closer and what else could he do but close his own eyes in that moment, and let Aziraphale take the lead in his most awaited dance, let his warm hand come up to caress his cheek, except not really because said hand just bypassed his heated cheek and went straight behind his ear instead...

... In one quick motion, Aziraphale pulled his hand back to reveal a shiny silver coin between his fingers.

 _"... In perfecting human magic! Ta-dah!"_ he finished with a big toothy smile, while Crowley's face remained awkwardly posed at the beginning of the word 'bouillabaisse'.

"Neat trick, don't you think?"

 _A trick indeed_ , Crowley grumbles internally. Also, nobody even says 'neat' anymore like it's a cool thing.

Instead of replying, he swiped and took a big bite of his culinary masterpiece. 

"W-wait, I wasn't finished with that yet--" Aziraphale protested, but Crowley had already devoured it entirely. 

He licked his fingers contentedly as he watched Aziraphale's face sag. "See how I quickly made that disappear? _Magic_."

Sitting on their own picnic blanket a few distances away, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, was having their coffee poured by the Archangel Gabriel. 

"This is difficult to watch," Beelzebub hissed as they blew the smoke from their steaming cup and hexed a frisbee to go amiss. 

"Almost feels like I'm eating human food," Gabriel said and fake-gagged as he miracled a lanky teenager to jump higher than usual. He craned his head upward to marvel at God's creation and to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. Just then, a cloud shaped like a cannabis leaf passed by.

"Look, I know this is the, uh... fifth time already, but I just want to make it clear that this is _not_ going to be a regular thing between us." He already said that the first time.

"There is no _us_ ," Beelzebub replied with the dirtiest look they could muster. They also said the same thing the first time.

Again, they were both wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! :)  
> feel free to let me know what you think about it in the comments :D


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